


the light of day is fading

by honeyedgold



Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Car Accidents, Hurt/Comfort, I'M SORRY I LOVE YOU VICTOR REALLY, M/M, Major Character: Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, death of a minor, tags to be updated, what in the hell did i just write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-10-29 14:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10855959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyedgold/pseuds/honeyedgold
Summary: What do you do when you've managed to attract the attention - or quite possiblyintentions- of Death, himself? For Victor Nikiforov, it means having a constant companion, someone he could rely on when his entire world was breaking apart. Someone who genuinely cares for him and supports him.Or so he thought, until Katsuki Yuuri came barreling into his life.





	1. sei bereit, sternkind (be prepared, star-child)

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you tell yourself, _i’ll quit writing, because i can’t write for shit._ Especially fanfic. Your muse will spend its time trying to stop you from starving it and come up with the most ridiculous of AUs. And to think all this started because I was drooling at Victor and noticed that he very much resembled the early Deaths [and the beautiful androgynous Takarazuka actresses]. 
> 
> Dedicated to Ellen, my long-suffering Facebook coconspirator and kouhai, to Nobu who led me into the Elisabeth fandom through her enthusiastic posting, and to Charlie [if ey ever comes across this], my Plurk partner-in-crime. I love y’all, and sorry for the crap quality and weirdass-ness that is my wish-fulfilment writing. 
> 
> Beta-ed by Natalie [cresstic on Twitter and AO3].
> 
> Title comes from a song in _Elisabeth, Die Schatten werden länger_ , specifically its reprise. That’s the song where Prince Rudolf dances with Death. Literally. It’s the gay song, if you don’t count the Mayerling Waltz. You don’t have to have any knowledge of the musical for this fic, though I made plenty of references to it. Essentially, it’s about the life of the Empress Elisabeth of Austria, reimagined as what is essentially her search for freedom and love affair with Death himself. And the carnage it leaves in their wake. My favorite cast for it, and the cast that I will be picturing writing this, is the 2012 Vienna revival, with Mark Seibert as Death, Annemieke van Dam as Elisabeth, and Anton Zetterholm as Rudolf. Speaking of the show, there’s also some references to a certain Elisabeth fanfic that I like very much. Can you find it? :)
> 
> Victor’s parents are named Mikhail and Katerina as a shoutout to Separation Anxiety by Okaeri_Kairi ~~WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING HERE, GO READ SEPANX~~. Disclaimer: It’s just a shoutout because I literally can’t think of Victor’s parents being named anything else. SepAnx is just that good. Other than that, my characterization, if any, hews closer to the musical’s portrayal of Franz Joseph and Elisabeth - Rudolf’s parents - than what Kairi does with Papa and Mama Nikiforov. And besides, her writing's wonderful, and mine sucks. 
> 
> I’m on twitter as liquid_sleep and tumblr as waytoadream - feel free to follow if you want to swear at me, or decide to check out what in tarnation this Elisabeth or Yuri on Ice thing is! =))) I might be able to direct you towards locations to watch one/both. The tag for this AU is #elisabethonice on any social media, in case you want to discuss it... 
> 
> There is zero fact-checking done in this, because all I know, I know from the two shows. Nothing about figure skating, or life in Russia/Japan. So... help wanted? =))

**_Trigger warning: this chapter includes a not-detailed description of a car accident and implied death of a minor._ **

 

Step right up, ladies and gentlemen and those who identify as neither! Welcome to the story of Victor Nikiforov, five-time consecutive world champion, a living legend. You must be here expecting a fun time - perhaps an edgy retelling of what you have known to be true. You want something fresh added on top of your regular experience, so you can enjoy the old material again and again without feeling the staleness of rereading.

But mostly, I am sure, you are here expecting a comforting, moral story about how the underdogs win despite all odds. How they defy the establishment. About two people finding each other, _completing_ each other, and then living happily ever after in the blissfulness that is what you’ve been taught to expect from life by fiction.

Well, this is not that kind of story.

Consider yourself duly warned. No refunds will be issued even in cases of severe emotional trauma.

You’re still here? Right then, let’s start.

It did not begin the moment Victor Nikiforov put on skates for the first time and slid slowly, clumsily, around on the ice with his mother. Their laughter had rang out across the public rink as they clung together for balance. (It turned out that Katerina, despite being a dancer, was utter rubbish when there were skates instead of ballet shoes on her feet. If you asked him about it, Victor would give you his best PR smile and deny it fervently, but he was _delighted_ that he found something that he could have for himself. Something Katya couldn’t do.)

It did not begin when he went home and found out about quads, triples, and international championships.

No, the story started much later, at the Russian Nationals. All was well; Victor won gold in his Junior debut, the best birthday present he could have given himself. He laughed, teary-eyed, when Papa gave him a hard clap on the back and an enthusiastic “Here comes the champion!”, leading to Mama suddenly realizing that she’d actually left the (surprise) tin of victory gingerbread meant for her _pryanichek_ in St. Petersburg.

“Katya, you went a little overboard with that one…” Mikhail protested, but then again, he knew all too well that stopping his wife when an idea strikes her is a nigh-impossibility (The amount of rants he heard from his son’s coach on the same topic is an everlasting fount of amusement for them. Vitya is an aggravating child, but they could hardly fault him for a trait that they also have a-plenty).

Katerina glowered. “ _Misha._ Our son is now officially the top Junior skater of our _country._ This needs a proper celebration!”

“The tin is twice the size of his head!”

“Mama, I’m still in training, I’ll just have one or two -”  

“VICTOR MIKHAILOVICH!” The force of Yakov Feltsman’s bellowing startled them all. Victor winced a little as his coach strode up to their little circle. “I’m sorry, Mikhail Yemelyanovich, Katerina Ivanovna, but -”

“Uh-oh,” Katya - _traitor, Mama! -_ giggled a little, “I see trouble!” Her husband just heaved a sigh and patted Victor on the back. “We’ll see you later.”

Just like that, they were gone, leaving him to Yakov’s tender mercies and not unexpected lecture about pulling moves his body wasn’t ready for - “WHAT DO YOU PAY ME FOR VICTOR IF YOU NEVER EVEN STOP TO CONSIDER ABOUT A WORD I SAY VICTOR IS THINKING A FOREIGN CONCEPT FOR YOU VICTOR -”

Victor ended up silencing his tirade (turned it into angry unintelligible spluttering, more like) with a cheerful, “I got the gold, didn’t I?” and the biggest smile plastered on his face. But for some inexplicable reason, and though both of them knew his Coach would rather die than admit it, he could feel pride from the older man.

Did he feel guilty? Yes. Did he know Yakov was right? Also, yes. But he was just so flush with success, so impossibly damned _giddy_ that even if someone threw ice water on him and insulted his entire family right there, he would probably just laugh it off. If this was what being on top of an entire country feels like, how much better would being an international champion be?

Okay, in his bracket at least. He couldn’t wait for his first Senior, international gold - now _that_ was success.

The rest of the event was a blur. Victor will admit to feeling a bit tired of having to answer the same questions from every reporter and admirer who got close enough, but he supposed he would have to get used to it. His exhibition - Rubinstein’s _Valse morceau de salon, op. 16_ \- went pleasantly well. On the way to their car, Katerina stepped on the wrong patch of snow and stumbled. Mikhail and Victor managed to haul her upright a split-second early, or she would have fallen - her large, rounded stomach hitting the ground first. There was breathless laughter when the momentary terror was over (“Eager to get out, isn’t she?” “I couldn’t possibly keep up with running after this one! Vitya, you’ll help corral Sonya, won’t you? After all the chases you led me on? Remember when -” “We’re in _public_ , Mama!” “Your future legion of adoring fans will want to know. We can auction your photos! You’ll sign them?” “ _Papa._ ”).

In hindsight, that should have been their first warning.

They had just piled into their car when Victor heard tires screaming.

He opened his mouth to cry out something. The other vehicle barreled into them.

Right where he and Katerina were seated.

And then, there was darkness.

At first, when he came to, his eyes were screwed shut. It was so bright it would probably burn had he tried. But there was no pain otherwise, which was odd, because he did remember being in a terrible accident. Even if he had woken up in a hospital, surely it would be awfully uncomfortable?

Then he realized he was being carried. He didn’t recognize the sensation at first, because it felt wrong somehow. He’d sprained his ankle once on the ice, and Misha had nearly knocked several kids over in his haste to sweep him up. He’d cried into his father’s shirt -

Oh. Heat. People were supposed to be warm, yet his cheek was pressed against something as cold as marble.

His back touched something. A mattress, hard, not like the one in his room that he could bounce on (He got too high once and cracked his head against the ceiling). He felt himself being put down, a blanket being drawn over him.

“Papa?” Victor croaked out, forcing his eyes open.

It wasn’t Misha, but someone just a little bit older. He was dressed in white from head to toe, but in a suit instead of a lab coat - not a doctor, then. His hair was blond, almost as white as Victor’s in the light. He was what the girls at school would sigh at and call “ruggedly handsome” (not that the boy would ever understand why) as they crowded, giggling, over his photograph.

The man was a stranger, true, because Victor had never seen him before, but it wouldn’t be out of place to just call him _strange,_ either. There was something odd about him; it didn’t quite add up. Maybe it was his eyes: two pitch black, flat discs, focused intensely on the boy in the bed. Victor didn’t like that look at all. It resembled the once-over his competitors would give him when he stepped on the ice, sizing him up. Or the way the man was unmoving like a statue, not making any of the small movements people do - shifting from foot to foot, moving their heads minutely, things like that - even when they are supposed to be standing still. Or how cold he was, that Victor couldn’t feel any body heat even through the clothing.

Victor wanted to ask where his parents were, and where _he_ was. What came out of his mouth instead was, “Who are you?”

“I am… a friend.”

The next thing that emerged would probably have earned him a reprimand had his parents or teacher heard: “... _what_ are you?” But, instead of telling him off for being rude, the stranger quirked an eyebrow and laughed in delighted surprise.

“Perceptive!” He sat down on the bed, smiling. “Tell me, then, little _Viten’ka_ , what you think I am.”  
  
If there’s one thing you should know about Victor Nikiforov, it’s that he’s an utter sucker for challenges and mysteries. He frowned, his brows furrowing as he turned the matter over, running over the checklist of what he _does_ know. Then, with the speed of the car that had appeared out of nowhere, it clicked.  
  
_“Death?_ Am I -”

“Not quite,” the man - _Death, himself_ \- chuckled lightly. “Somewhere in between.”

Victor thought his eyes must have been the size of saucers, the way he was staring aghast. “But - my parents?” And suddenly, he could see a different room overlaid on the one he was in. There were machines, doctors, nurses, all in a state of frenzied activity. He blinked again, and the image was gone, leaving behind a white void, with no walls or windows whatsoever. The only thing that was clear was himself, the bed, and his companion.  
  
“You are here, Victor Mikhailovich,” Death told him, voice solemn, but with mirth dancing in his eyes, “because you have a choice to make.” Cold fingers found warm ones over the blanket and laced their hands together tightly. They didn’t feel as uncomfortable as before. “You are meant for great things, more than what the skating world could ever imagine. You will have more than just that gold at the Russian Nationals. The car that struck you was a fluke that I could not stop in time. But I can help you now... if you will let me.”

The boy sat up on the bed, eyes narrowed, attention fully focused on the man. “A choice?”

“You can either choose to end it here and move on without regret. The world will remember you as a skating prodigy gone tragically soon. Or…” Death’s smile widened, “you can return to life, and suffer through it - but you will be a five-time consecutive world champion. A Prince among common skaters, a _genius._ ”

Victor couldn’t help himself. He burst into incredulous laughter. “What kind of choice is that? The second one, obviously!” He gestured towards himself. “I have years of skating in me and you think I’ll just quit?” Besides, if he _did_ choose the first one, he was pretty sure Yakov would stalk right into the afterlife and drag him out, yelling all the way back to Russia to tell him off for even _thinking_ of slacking off. He wouldn’t put it past the man at all.

“Of course,” Death agreed, expression genial, almost approving in a paternal way. “Nothing more than what I would expect from you.”    
  
Somehow, Victor couldn’t shake the distinct feeling that he had just been played.

His companion stood. The mattress did not make a sound. “Very well.” A hand was placed on his shoulder, affectionate. “Sleep, _Viten’ka_. And then… welcome to the brave new world of your own making. And remember that with this choice, I will always be close to you; you only need to call when you need me.”

It felt only a second later when he woke up, this time in a hospital room. There were still machines, beeping steadily - but this time, his body felt as if he’d taken another thorough pounding like the last time some kids didn’t take a fancy to his pretty face and ponytail. At his first groan, he could hear the shuffle of a chair being pushed back hastily, and footsteps.

“Vitya?” Mikhail also had bandages around his head, and his arm was in a sling, but otherwise he was unharmed. “Are you alright, son? Does it hurt? Do you need a nurse?”

The boy shook his head - the motion made him a little bit dizzy, but he wasn’t too concerned about that right now. There was a feeling greater than pain, a sense of _wrong_ that he needed to sort out right there before any doctor could rush in. Under the joy of seeing his son awake, it was undeniable that Mikhail had been crying. His eyes were red and puffy, and the circles around them might as well have been tattooed.

 “...Papa? Where’s -” There it is, that dread again. “Where’s Mama and Sonya?”

If Victor had been sitting up, he would have seen his father’s free hand clench, fingernails drawing blood from his palm. “Katya’s just out of surgery. They said she’s doing well. But -”

Oh.

_No._

_“Sonya…”_ The exhalation was sharp and lanced, white-hot, like a knife into his head. Mikhail looked straight at Victor, eyes - the same eyes he had given his son - glistening. His voice broke. “She died.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More author's notes than you'd care to read: 
> 
> \- This chapter's title comes from a line in Totale Finsternis, a song from the German original version of Tanz der Vampire, European success and legendary Broadway flop. English speakers might know the song as Total Eclipse of the Heart. "Sei bereit, sternkind," is the equivalent of "Turn around, bright eyes,". My absolute favorite rendition is by Mark Seibert and Veronica Appeddu, available [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qfpNPdiFLY) Mark and Anton Zetterholm, the aforementioned Death and Prince Rudolf, were both in Tanz, just not in the same production. And yes, before you ask... there's also a very gay duet/dance in Tanz. 
> 
> \- I deliberately kept things vague to edit later, but the working assumption is that Victor's debut is in 1999. The very year Evgeni Plushenko won gold. =))) No, it's an entire coincidence. But the universe is rarely so lazy...
> 
> \- You don't even need a mental image for the scene where Death carries Victor. Here's him carrying [Elisabeth](https://mymusicaltheatrelife.files.wordpress.com/2017/01/img_0177-1.jpg?w=820), and him carrying [little Rudolf.](http://www.musicalplanet.net/mediendatenbank/show/elisabeth/2015-tour/Das-Musical-Elisabeth_Benedikt-Lucks_kleiner-Rudolf-Koeln__Mark-Seibert_Tod_2.JPG) Annemieke van Dam is Sisi, and Benedikt Lucks is Rudolf. (I prefer Aeneas Hollweg's little Rudolf, but that's neither here nor there.)
> 
> \- _pryanichek_ : Russian term of endearment, meaning _gingerbread man_. Another one of my little nods to SepAnx. 
> 
> \- Why Nikolai Rubinstein, you ask? He was a close friend and colleague of Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky. (Yuuri's first exposure to Victor was via the Junior Worlds short program, which was Tchaikovsky's The Lilac Fairy). He tended towards a restrained style of composing and playing, unlike his intense brother Anton (who is now more famous than Nikolai). Nikolai's death was a personal tragedy for poor Tchaikovsky. My brain just liked the allusion, with the two Yuris connected to the Rubinsteins, and Victor connected to Tchaikovsky. After all, Tchaikovsky was also very concerned about his audience's emotional experiences, just like Victor. "Tchaikovsky's main concern was how his music impacted his listeners on an aesthetic level, at specific moments in the piece and on a cumulative level once the music had finished. What his listeners experienced on an emotional or visceral level became an end in itself." (Francis Maes)


	2. und flieg wie ein Vogel ins Licht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More author's notes than you'd care to read: 
> 
> \- The title comes from the song _Ich gehör nur mir_ (I Belong to Me) of the original musical. The full line is: "Willst du mich bekehren, dann reiß ich mich los, und flieg wie ein Vogel ins Licht." (If you wish to convert me, then I'll break free, and fly like a bird to the light.)  
>  \- Because Natalie pointed it out to me: Yes, Victor's sister's official paperwork name is Sofia Mikhailevna Nikiforova. Her family calls her Sonya, which is a diminutive, similar to the "Vitya" of canon and "Viten'ka" here. 
> 
> And, finally: because I am far too emotionally invested, I commissioned art for this fic! Kudos to the lovely Albi, who can be found at drenched-in-sunlight on Tumblr! 
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://s1031.photobucket.com/user/vampkittymobile/media/mamawbd.jpg.html)  
> 

**_(and fly like a bird to the light)_ **

 

It was a miracle. Victor had a cracked skull, a nick in the aorta - and dear God working through the sprains was unbearable - but he survived, in no small part thanks to the doctors and nurses scrambling to save him from Death, and the power of modern medicine.

So the newspapers and his official statements say.

In reality, he wasn’t quite sure that he had been saved at all. He didn’t even cry, not once, in the hospital; he couldn’t bring himself to. As he held Katerina, her wretched sobs making them both tremble, Mikhail’s tears seared his shoulders, the three of them clinging tightly to each other. Each drop felt like a brand, marking his flesh, recording his sin for all to see. He had chosen this. Oh, he  _ would  _ try to lie to himself, in bursts, for the rest of his life, that he hadn’t. But he’d as good as murdered his sister so that he could live. Committed the most ancient crime in human history: the destruction of something innocent and good. 

Victor Nikiforov was a damned creature. He would carry this burden forever. Who would be insane enough to believe his confession? And even if they did, how could they ever absolve him?

When they finally released him, his arrival home led the boy into the nursery. It was three-fourths decorated. The walls were painted alternately in shades of pink and white; some soft toys were piled inside a cot. Amongst the colors, a scrap of black fabric caught his eye. He picked it up. 

And then, he felt something hot run down his face. His brain noted, almost idly, that he was crying. It was loud, true, but didn’t resemble Katerina’s wails that seemed to be drawn from her entire being. His legs folded, and he crumpled to his knees. Even as he clutched at the toy rabbit, crushing it to his chest, as he rocked back and forth, keening, high-pitched noises ripping out of him, it still didn’t feel real at all. 

Logically, he knew he was crying, and really should stop before either of his parents found him. Emotionally, he felt like he was simply sitting on the couch, watching a badly-acted grief scene in a melodrama.

Eventually exhausted, Victor lay flat on his back, the stuffed animal flopped across his chest, rising and falling with each slow breath. An eternity seemed to pass - he was sure he could have lain there forever - before a chill suddenly ran down his spine. He cracked his eyes open; then immediately scrambled up, his heart pounding wildly at the sight of the figure lounging in the armchair.

Death tilted his head to one side, an eyebrow at half-mast.

“You,” Victor breathed out. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palm so hard they almost drew blood. “How dare you-” 

“My poor, foolish, little Prince. Did you truly think this bargain wouldn’t come with costs?” The apparition stood, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his features. In a fraction of a second, he did not at all look like the enigmatic but kindly figure that had sat at Victor’s bedside and offered him a second chance. There was a sinuous grace in his unnaturally soundless movement, and a slight sibilant hiss in his syllables. Demonic, almost. “Only death can pay for life. Surely you know that? Or did you flatter yourself as being so special  _ you _ would be exempt? That all should simply hand you what you consider yourself entitled to?”

Victor bristled. “You lied to me. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.” 

Death let out a breath of contemptuous laughter. “I did no such thing, if you’ll recall. I merely offered you a choice between death and life. You leapt to the latter. I can hardly take the blame for your snap decisions, now can I?” 

Much as he loathed to admit it, Death was  _ right.  _ He felt shame crushing against his lungs. His throat constricted, and the tears threatened to spill over again. In the heat of that moment, none of it seemed irrational that he should choose to live. It was Victor being Victor, always leaping forward and forever leaving others running after him to pick up the pieces. When would he ever learn to stop letting his mouth run away on its own? This time, for the first occasion that he knew of, it was something neither his parents nor his coaches could fix. 

The Reaper’s smile grew magnanimous. “Someone wishes to see you.” He made a grand, sweeping gesture to the window. Despite himself, Victor approached it.

A strangled sound was caught in his throat. Before his eyes, in the garden, there was a little girl playing happily. Impossibly light-footed, she darted from place to place like a white bird constantly in flight. With every movement she seemed to grow. Eventually she stilled, frozen in an arabesque that reminded Victor, uncomfortably, of a snapshot from a spiral sequence. Seeing that he was staring, she ran up to the window, breathless, and pressed a hand to the glass.

_ Vitya,  _ Sofia Mikhailevna mouthed, blue eyes - so like his - shining against the pallor of her skin. She was already a young woman, dark ringlets falling to the middle of her back.  _ Dance with me, Vitya.  _ With that, she retreated, twirling away on lithe limbs, skirts swirling.

“Prove it. Give me proof,  _ Viten’ka,  _ that I was right to return you here. That you are indeed so  _ special _ …” Death reached out to caress his jaw gently, and his eyes seemed to soften to something that could almost seem human. “...that you were granted something most could only dream of, little Prince. That you are worthy of your sister.” 

Victor shivered, but did not shy away from the touch as he would have done mere minutes ago. Before the human had a chance to reply, Death had melted back into his realm, yet he lingered just behind the barriers between worlds, watching as Victor stood, focus still trained on the scene outside. Trembling fingers reached up to ghost over the spot that Death had just rested his hand upon. 

Eventually, the boy exhaled, and murmured softly, “...okay.” With that as a parting word, he hurried out of the nursery and back to his own room.

Left alone, Death waved a hand languidly. The illusion of the Nikiforov girl disappeared into curls of gray smoke.  _ Ah, mortals and their foolish attachments to “what-ifs”.  _ It was almost laughably easy to conjure “Sofia” from Victor’s vision of what his sister would be, as strong as those thoughts were. The truth was that Sofia Mikhailevna did not exist except in the minds of those who hoped she did.

He smiled again.

He would have the boy, and soon.

  
  



	3. wenn ich dein spiegel wär

**(if i were your mirror)**  
  
“Mama?”  
  
“Yes, Vitya?”  
  
The question, whatever it was, died on his lips when Katerina turned towards him. It suddenly struck him how worn and haggard his mother looked, even as she was putting on her makeup. The lines on her face were no longer soft (in the way he’d seen his Aunt Lera age — gracefully, as Syanov women tend to) but razor-sharp from the loss of sleep. The dark circles under her brown eyes might as well have been tattooed there. Victor shook his head minutely.  
  
“Can I have the jam, please?”  
  
“Of course.” She passed him the jar, and he added generous spoonfuls of it to his tea. Neither of them commented on how the other’s smile looked perfunctory, born out of a desperate need to cling to some semblance of normalcy. _Soon,_ he told himself. _We’ll be back to normal. Soon._  
  
They never did. Days grew into weeks, and the pall over their family did not lift. Mikhail took on more duties at work; so did Katerina. Victor spent many dinners alone. It was as if they wanted to escape the house for as long as it was possible. He couldn’t blame them. When they were together, the casual observer would say that they seemed a perfectly normal family, adjusting well to the aftermath of tragedy. In truth, Sonya’s absence hovered between them, weighing down every single interaction like questions unasked.  
  
The gloom remained long after they have scrupulously removed every trace that the household had ever been expecting a child. _What could I have done?_ If only he had been fast enough to slam his foot upon the accelerator and jolt the car out of harm’s way. If only she had listened to her unprompted sense of unease and fatigue and stayed home instead of going to the exhibition skate. If only he hadn’t -  
  
If only. If only. If only.  
  
They saw her everywhere they look.  
  
Victor’s dreams were haunted by dancing, faceless shadows in white. Mocking laughter trilled around him as their circle closed in. He would wake up every time he felt their clammy hands grab at him, muffling a scream in his pillow. Most nights, he was quickly lulled back to sleep by cool, gentle caresses on his back, and the simple assurance that he wasn’t alone. But despite clocking in eight hours every night, almost mechanically, he would always start the day exhausted.  
  
For a while, he was uncharacteristically subdued on the ice. He didn’t go so far as to rattle off “Yes, Coach,” at every suggestion like the rest of Yakov’s students, but he was… off. Training suddenly became part of his day, like a chore he had to get done but didn’t particularly relish. He would arrive at the rink, skate, shower, and then leave, hardly saying an unprompted word. His planned program for the upcoming Worlds was safe enough to medal, he was sure, but there was nothing spectacular about it. He was just starting out after all. There’s no real need to immediately get to the top of the podium.  
  
Or so he tells himself.  
  
A week before the event, he happened to glance at the stands in the middle of a triple toe loop, and promptly flubbed his landing as he caught a glimpse of flaxen hair. Except for him, the rink had been completely deserted a moment before. Yakov had gone out on some errand.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Victor demanded, once he’s gotten back on his feet. His hip ached dully.  
  
Death arched an eyebrow. “Can I not observe?”  
  
Before Victor could blink, the apparition was on the ice next to him. Black blades gleamed under his feet. “Or perhaps you would prefer that I join you?” He launched into motion, carving out three perfect circles into the ice, changing feet in the middle.  
  
Narrowing his eyes, Victor set off as well. He wasn’t about to provide an opening for anyone to upstage him in _his_ territory. Holding his right free foot forward, he glid on his left down the center of the rink. Then, the skater used the toe of his right foot to push into a left forward outside 3 turn, reaching back to pick with the right foot. The great momentum vaulted him into the jump.  
  
_One,_  
_two,_  
_three -_  
Four rotations. The landing was flawless.  
  
He skidded to a breathless stop on the ice and dead silence.

The latter was shortly broken with a slow, incredulous, “Vitya. What the hell?”  
  
“Hi, Yakov!” Victor chirped happily at his coach. “You’re back early!” Behind him, Death chuckled. The sound was short, like a two-note blast, but with surprising warmth and gentleness that wasn’t at all unwelcome.  
  
“And now I suppose you will immediately ask me whether you can incorporate that in time for Worlds? We went through this already, Victor! Are you asking for injuries? At your age -” Yakov half-expected his skater to wave a hand dismissively and say, _“I nailed it, so what’s the fuss?”_ It would have been utterly predictable. Instead, Victor forced a smile onto his face and said, quietly, “Please, Yakov Nikolayevich. Just let me try.”  
  
This gave Yakov pause, looking at the now-somber young man. As much as he yelled — because good Lord, what had he done to deserve such a flippantly disobedient, overconfident handful for a student? He wasn't being paid enough even if his salary was all the money in the world — and even though he did not want to see yet another potential champion push himself to breaking point, he could see that Victor was serious. If he said no, it will be the boy’s heart that breaks instead of his limbs. He didn’t know which was worse.  
  
“Fine,” he growled testily. “On your own head be it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”  
  
Victor did not land the quadruple flip that Worlds. But the media coverage was sensational, and that was enough proof to him that he should try again.  
  


* * *

When he and Misha woke up one day _after_ , the house just felt odd all of a sudden. Vitya had then walked into the living room to find everything his mother had ever owned had vanished. And so had she.  
  
The divorce proceedings were accomplished with minimal fuss, mainly due to the lack of a custody battle or shared properties. The Nikiforovs had kept their assets quite separate. Last he heard of her, she was in Hungary, remarried, with a new family and surname. (He wouldn’t see their photos until Facebook was already quite popular. The website had innocently suggested that perhaps he knew them. He had nearly dropped his phone into the hotel pool when her smiling face flashed across the screen.) Upon examining the profiles, a thought came to him: it was almost as if those strangers were chosen specifically by Katerina because they bear absolutely no resemblance to him and Papa.  
  
He wanted to be angry, and stay angry. Oh, he was, at first. So much. It may be hard to believe now, but the trash bag that he took out after bore testament to it, filled with broken mementoes and china. But eventually, what he could only find was resignation. And a faint hope that she’s found whatever she was missing. Slowly, Katerina Ivanovna faded into a distant memory. Like everything else in his life outside of the ice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The chapter’s title comes from Prince Rudolf’s heartbreaking solo, “If I Were Your Mirror”, in which he muses about how he and his mother were so alike, but she refuses to let him into her heart. The feels, for me, are a little bit ruined when I realized Anton Zetterholm has quite the real estate that is his prodigious forehead (or a receding hairline). Reminds me of a certain Russian. XD I mean, his hair isn’t half bad in the other scenes, but in that one it just looks… icky… XD 
> 
> \- You may have noticed this chapter is even shorter than anything I've updated. That's correct. I have something else in the works right now, and it is a Sailor Moon AU. My brain is not letting go of that idea, and I have written more for it than I have for the entirety of this fic. Plus, this fic requires a lot of research into the skating world, which I'm not yet prepared for. This is an update so that the chapter will stop burning a hole in my Google Docs. However, I am NOT abandoning this fic! I have lots more in store. 
> 
> \- To Elisabeth fans reading this story, if any: While I think Mark Seibert is adorable, I firmly believe his take on Death is that of a manipulative bastard to his very core, who uses Exact Words like a weapon, with either a poor understanding of how humans function or just a lot of cold cruelty. (And “a shitty Dom,” as my Facebook squad - but mostly me - refer to him as.) I STILL HAVE NOT FORGIVEN HIM FOR BEING THE ONLY DEATH THAT THROWS RUDOLF TO THE FLOOR AND LEAVES IMMEDIATELY AFTER KISSING HIM. LIKE HE DOESN’T WANT TO DIRTY HIS HANDS. OTHER DEATHS HOLD RUDOLF FOR A BIT BEFORE DROPPING HIM. TAKARAZUKA DEATH EVEN CRADLES THE CORPSE TRIUMPHANTLY AS XIR DESCENDS INTO THE UNDERWORLD. ...yeah, safe to assume Rudolf is my baby who I will defend unto death. AND AGAINST DEATH HIMSELF. 
> 
> \- The "two-note laughter" bit is based on Mark's actual laugh. It's very, very adorable and very distinctive. I will add a video and timestamp once I find it. 
> 
> \- Skating-wise: Yes, Death did a serpentine step sequence. I think. Skaters, feel free to correct me! I chose it deliberately because from what I read, it's old-school. And the name doesn't exactly inspire warm fluffy feelings. And Victor, obviously, the little shit, did a quad flip. 
> 
> \- Finally: This fic now has an official TVTropes article. I plead a combination of boredom and intense procrastination. Spoilers abound, but I try to hide them under tags. You’re welcome. XD http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/TheLightOfDayIsFading


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